Glorious Ordinary
by pheonixfeather94
Summary: "And in the dark, and in the tired, and in the small everydayness of these moments, I can feel it: the glorious ordinary that is his gift to us." / A drabble collection featuring Killian Jones and Emma Swan
1. Anything You Can Do

**Anything You Can Do**

(rated G)

* * *

She pauses just outside the door, key clasped in her hand, and tilts her head slightly to the side.

There's a noise coming from inside the loft, something soft and whirring and mechanical—

A drill?

She slides the key into the lock and twists the knob in one smooth movement, pushing over the threshold, and then stops, rather abruptly.

She isn't quite sure what she expected—half of her envisioned some sort of eccentric burglar, while the other half pictured her father in all his flannel glory—but the reality certainly isn't it.

"What are you doing?"

Killian starts, the power tool dropping from his hand to the floor with a loud crash. She winces while he yelps out a curse, and then the two of them are just standing there facing each other in the sudden silence.

She blinks, slowly taking in the half-formed shelving unit that has appeared on the living room wall, an open toolbox on the ottoman and various wrappings and packagings strung about the floor.

"What are you doing?"

Her repeated question seems to break some sort of spell. He shuffles on bare feet, reaching up to toy at the lobe of his ear—a nervous gesture, she's learned—and she spots the tell-tale hint of pink coloring his cheeks.

"The other evening, you mentioned that you might like a shelf to set the television on." He glances back over his shoulder, gesturing rather redundantly. "I took it upon myself to procure one."

Her heart melts just the littlest bit—it has a tendency to do that with him, she's noticed—and she takes a step farther into the room, setting her keys on a side table, to more closely inspect his handiwork.

"You did this?" she verifies, glancing over the brackets and mounts, all flush neatly against the wall, before casting her eyes back to him. "All by yourself?"

His expression is guarded, careful, and his hand makes a circuit through his hair before coming down to snag in a belt loop. "Does that surprise you?"

Truthfully, it kind of does. She doesn't have a history of staying any one place long enough to even think about putting up shelving, hanging pictures, painting walls—and they're certainly not to the point in their relationship that she would consider him doing those things for her, for _them_.

But, then she remembers that he did spend well over three centuries doing manual labor aboard a ship, and he does seem to have an uncanny ability for adapting to the modernity of this new life that he's chosen, and suddenly it's not so difficult to picture him strolling through the aisles at the local hardware store.

She runs her fingers over the cool metal of the shelf, tracing the meticulously placed tic marks on the still-exposed expanse of wall, and she can't quite manage to keep a smile from her face, because she knows that every time she looks at this shelf, every time she touches it or dusts it or rearranges Henry's obscenely large collection of DVDs, that she'll think about this, about _him_, standing barefoot and bare chested in the middle of the loft that's mostly hers and a little bit his and slowly becoming theirs, and she knows—she knows and she hopes and she _wants_—that this is only the first of many improvements he'll bring to her life and her home.

"No," she answers finally, turning to face him. She reaches out and catches the pocket of his jeans, tugging him closer, and sighs when his arm comes up around her shoulders. "No, it doesn't."


	2. Baby Mine

**Baby Mine**

(rated C for cavities)

* * *

The first time he feels their child move inside of her-_really _move, a sharp and pointed nudge-he cries, huge gasping, wracking sobs that leave his eyes red rimmed and his nose stuffy for the rest of the night.

They're sprawled across the couch, her legs thrown over his lap. A movie plays on the television, something that she'd put in out of habit when they'd settled down after dinner, but neither one of them are watching; she's reclined back against the arm rest, eyes closed, but he knows she's not really sleeping, because he's been watching _her_ for the better part of an hour.

He runs a finger over one of her swollen ankles, asking a silent question, and she cracks open one eyelid to look at him.

"Do you really even have to ask at this point?" Her voice is dry, deadpan, and he chuckles as he slips his hand more firmly around the inflamed joint, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile at her contented sigh.

"Thank you," she murmurs as he works his way up and down her calf. Not for the first time, he wishes for another hand, five more fingers with which to bring her pleasure, but then she sighs again, and he's happy enough to know that he can bring her _any_ amount of pleasure.

"Anything for the lady," he teases gently, winking at her when she rolls her eyes.

Her long lashes flutter closed once more, and he slides his hand farther up her leg, pushing up the hem of her cotton pants to lay his cheek against the silky skin of her thigh. She's warm and smooth and so undeniably perfect, and he can't help pressing his lips in a little line down to her knee. Her hands come to land in his hair-she's always fingering the dark locks now, now that he's let it grow out some for her-and he hums his own appreciation as her nails scrape over his scalp.

"I love you," he says into the crease of her knee, feeling rather than hearing her reciprocation when she rubs softly at the skin just under his ear, the spot that makes him fall apart for her every time. He lets his own eyes fall closed, and they soothe each other into something just short of slumber.

He doesn't know if minutes or hours have passed when he feels her tense beneath him. He tilts his head up to look at her, blinking through drowsiness to frown at her expression of discomfort.

He straightens almost immediately, reaching out for her as she bites her lip in pain.

"What is it?"

She shakes her head, halfheartedly waving him off as she shift her hips. "Nothing. He's just-I don't know, he's kicking or something. Right in my side."

Her hands move to cradle her rounded belly, smoothing over the surface, and his follow suit. He feels the now-familiar rolling sensation as the baby moves beneath the thin barrier of her skin, and he presses his fingers down, massaging the way he's learned feels best. Her hand links with his, pulling it to the side a few inches, and he moves obligingly before freezing.

Every muscle in his body tenses, the breath catching sharply in his throat, and he stares down at her with eyes blown wide.

It happens again a moment later; the outline of a nearly perfectly shaped miniature foot presses against the skin of his palm, once, twice, insistently.

He blinks, and he tries to breathe, but suddenly there's a lump in his throat and a knot in his chest, and then his eyes are welling up and nearly spilling over.

She frowns up at him, lips parting in question, but he feels that little kick again, and when he chokes over a sob, her expression clears in understanding.

Part of him is horrified-he spent three hundred years as bloody _Captain Hook_, and now he's crying like the babe cradled in her womb-but there's a bigger part of him that is absolutely, completely, terrifyingly overwhelmed.

He's felt elbow nudges and the sharp ridge of knuckles and even the roll of a knee, but this-this is different. This is him _cradling his unborn child's foot, _and all he can think about are ten tiny toes and blue and white striped socks and first steps and-

_Bloody hell_.

It hits him then, the fact that this baby is real, more real than a sonogram or a name stitched along the edge of a blanket or a picture that he has in his mind of Emma's chin and his ears and their son.

_Their son_.

And it seems so little, so inconsequential, just this little nudge, but somehow it isn't, and he wants to feel more of it. He wants to trace his fingers along satin skin and gossamer hair in a way that he's never wanted before.

Emma's hand moves from covering his on her rounded belly, slipping up his arm and around his neck and pulling his head down onto her shoulder, where he willingly rests. He screws his eyes shut against the burn of emotion there, tries to focus on the way her fingers card through his hair, tries to just _breathe_, but then he feels another little push pressing into the palm of his hand, and he looses it again, because he helped _make_ that little foot.

It's more than he ever imagined it would be, more than he ever thought, more than he could ever _deserve,_ to have this woman he loves carrying his child.

His head shifts down, and he moves his hand just enough to press his lips to the spot where he last felt that little foot. His fingers flex around the bulge of her stomach, willing the next four weeks to pass with merciful haste.

He wants to love this child in a way that he was never loved, yearns for sticky kisses bath time bubbles and tiny arms wrapped tight round his neck.

But for now, for now he does what little he's able to do-smooths his fingers over Emma's stretched skin, and nuzzles against the little body still swaddled inside.


	3. A Spoonful of Sugar

**A Spoonful of Sugar**

(rated G)

* * *

Her pirate, she learns, has a rather comical affinity for chocolate milk.

As does, apparently, her four year old son.

She wakes late, even for a Saturday, and when she blinks the sleep from her eyes to peer at the clock on the bedside table, she nearly topples out of the bed at what the little red numbers blink—9:51.

Her first reaction is confused disorientation—she briefly wonders if the power flickered overnight—before panic takes over, because it's nearly ten o'clock in the morning and she hasn't heard a peep from any of her children and _why is that_.

She throws the covers back, blindly reaching behind her to fumble for her husband's shoulder, only to be met with a cool pillow. She pauses, one foot halfway into a ragged pink slipper, and glances back to make sure that, yes, she really is in bed alone. She frowns—because, really, is this some sort of freaky second coming?—but then she hears a giggle and a squeal come from the direction of the living room, followed by a deep, husky chuckle that she knows so well, and it starts to make a little more sense in her sleep-muddled brain.

She drops her head down into her hand, raking her fingers up through her tangled mess of third-day hair, and takes a second to breathe for the first time in, like, six minutes.

When she's finally come to terms with the fact that yes, it really is ten o'clock, and no, her children and husband have not been abducted, she shoves her other foot into her matching slipper and pads softly into the hall.

She glances in Henry's room as she passes, her lanky nineteen-year-old's form buried under a pile of blankets and pillows, and allows herself a small smile before continuing on to the living room.

She stops when she gets to the end of the hall, and leans against the frame, taking a moment to observe the sight in front of her.

Her husband stands at the kitchen counter, two glasses of frothy, chocolatey liquid in front of him, and a tiny bottle in his free hand. Liam is right beside him, squirming impatiently and grasping on to Killian's shirt in a vain effort to pull himself up.

Killian swivels his head to grin down at the boy. "Patience, lad," he chastises gently, nudging him back a step with his knee. "Careful of your sister. Why don't you run on over and turn on the cartoons, hmm?"

Liam huffs, but obliges, and she watches, slightly in awe, as Killian finishes mixing the formula, propping the bottle into the tiny swaddle of blankets tucked in the crook of his bad arm and collecting the glasses of chocolate milk in his hand.

This is the part of parenthood that she hadn't been expecting, this joy she feels at watching the man she loves care for their children. He'd been so worried, with Liam, that he wouldn't be able to care for the baby properly, but now, on this second go 'round, he's a pro, three hundred years of one-handedness more than preparing him for juggling two.

He turns, stopping when he catches sight of her in the doorway, and an apologetic smile quirks up the corners of his lips.

"Sorry," he says as she takes a few steps closer, relieving him of the chocolate milk. "I tried to keep him quiet."

"And let me guess, the tickle monster made an appearance?" she fills in, cocking an eyebrow.

He chuckles, low and warm, and she can't help but grin as he slings his now-free arm around her shoulders and presses his lips against her temple. "Something like that," he murmurs. He kisses her again, on the cheek, and again, right on the corner of her mouth. "And you know the only way to fend off the dastardly beast."

She nods into the crook of his neck, matter-of-fact. "Of course. Chocolate milk."

"Chocolate milk," he echoes solemnly.

She snorts, winding an arm about his waist—there's a part of her that still delights in his shiver when she slips her hand beneath the hem of his t-shirt, fingering the warm skin there—and lifts the other to brush the blankets back from her baby girl's face.

She's met with a pair of sleepy green-blue eyes, and she smiles softly as she brushes a finger over her two-month-old daughter's wispy black curls.

"I can take her, if you want," she offers, and she's surprised when he shakes his head, loosening his arm to push her gently back in the direction of their bedroom.

"I've got her," he assures her. "Go back to bed, darling."

She _is_ exhausted, and the prospect of falling back into bed for another couple of hours _is_ tempting, but then Liam catches sight of her, and he begins a chant of "Momma, momma, momma!" as he jumps up and down on the couch, and Meara begins to fuss and root for the bottle in Killian's hand, and even though she knows there are horrendous bags under her eyes and her hair is stringy and limp and she hasn't shaved her legs in at least a week, she just can't bring herself to leave.

So, she sets the glasses of chocolate milk down on the coffee table and swoops in to pepper her little boy with kisses. Killian half-heartedly offers to make her a glass of milk, as well, but she waves him off because, really, they both know that she'll just drink his.


	4. Definitely, Maybe

A/N: Thank you all so much for your favorites, follows and kind reviews. I love seeing them! If anyone out there has any prompt ideas/requests, feel free to post them in a review or find jennsavvi on tumblr. That said, here's a little speck of fluff to tide you over after last night's episode :)_  
_

**Definitely, Maybe**

(rated T for implied sexual activity)

* * *

She wakes to the feeling of a warm arm slipping around her waist, and when a pair of lips press softly into the crook of her neck, she freezes, eyes snapping open.

"It's just me," comes a quiet murmur next to her ear, and she feels her body melt back into relaxation at the familiar voice.

Killian resumes tracing his lips up and down the line of her neck, and she takes a moment to just _feel_. It's been so long since she's done this, since she's opened her arms and her bed and her heart, and she expects to feel the aching twinge of regret, but she doesn't, not even when his hand slips up over her ribs to rest on that place where she knows her pulse is beating out a rhythm of words all its own.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, and the whispered words tickle the shell of her ear. She nods, bringing her fingers up to tangle in his.

"Did _you_?"

He hums an affirmative into her hair, nose nudging her when he nods. "Better than I have in ages, my love."

His words send a thrill through her body, and the addition of those two possessive letters in front of the endearment she's become so used to hearing sets her heart racing. She's heard him say it before, will hear it again, certainly, but it carries more weight than usual in the stillness of this first morning-after.

"Emma?" he questions, and it's only then that she realizes her body's gone stiff again. She makes a conscious effort to loosen her muscles, and rolls in his arms to smile sheepishly up at him.

"Sorry," she says softly. "Old habits."

She reaches up to run a thumb over his lips, and he presses a kiss to her knuckle. "You don't have anything to run from this time. I'll not hurt you."

It's become a mantra of sorts, his promise to her that he vows over and over in the words that he speaks and the things that he does and the way that she knows—just _knows_, without him having to say anything—that he loves her, probably more than anyone's ever loved her in her whole life.

"I know."

She smiles, sliding her hand back through his hair to pull him down for a long, languid kiss. His tongue slips against hers, and even though her body aches and she really wants nothing more than to take a hot shower, she feels the want start to pool between her legs.

He kisses her like he can't get enough of her, and it breaks her heart a little bit to think that he'd spent all that time—stubborn, foolish man that he is—thinking he'd never get to kiss her like this again.

Oxygen becomes a necessity at some point, however, and she breaks away to heave in gasping breaths of air. His lips are kiss-bitten red, the apples of his cheeks stained the most delectable pink, and her hands have absolutely wrecked his hair, but he's beautiful in that way that twists in her chest, and she pulls him closer so that she can rest her forehead against the skin of his neck.

"Do you want to get up?"

His voice is raw and thick around both lust and love, and it makes her shiver a little bit to hear it. She glances over at the clock, briefly, and notes with satisfaction that they still have a couple of hours before Henry will be up and looking for her. She knows that, eventually, they'll have to start their day; they'll have to trek down the stairs to the diner and meet her parents for breakfast, and they'll have to fan out and start picking up the pieces of what's left of Storybrooke, but it's only just a quarter after five, and they can afford to stay in bed a little longer.

He doesn't question when she pushes him gently onto his back and rolls to straddle his hips. His hand comes up to hold her steady, and she bites her lip when they start to move because she thinks that maybe she loves him—and maybe it's less of a _think_ and more of a _know_, and less of a _maybe_ and more of a _definitely_—but she doesn't quite have the words to say it, at least not the way he does, and so she lets her body do all the talking, and when she falls apart, he's still right there, arms wrapped around her tight, his lips already knitting her back together.


	5. 21st Century Man

She wishes she could say that she bought it on a whim, that she hadn't put hours—_days_—into thinking about it. She'd like to think it was one of those things that she tossed in her basket nonchalantly, like an extra loaf of bread or a package of batteries.

It was most definitely _not_ a nonchalant purchase.

The idea comes to her, unbidden, one morning when he bursts through the door of the sheriff's station, balancing two to-go coffee cups in one hand and grumbling on about how she'd been impossible to find.

She takes a Styrofoam cup from him, her face creasing when she realizes that, come to think of it, she'd had no idea where he'd been, and not even the slightest clue as to where she would've looked for him, had the need arose.

(A tiny, niggling voice in the back of her head mocks that her needing him has been occurring with much more frequency than it ever used to.)

She sips carefully from her cup as he settles into a nearby chair, kicking his boots up onto the edge of her desk and winking when she tosses him a half-hearted eye-roll.

He starts in on some rambling tale about Leroy and Walter, and she closes her eyes for a moment, trying to imagine the way his voice would sound coming through a speaker.

* * *

She starts him off on the phone at the office, patiently explaining the different parts and what each of the buttons does. He's a quick learner, never asking for a repeat instruction, and in less than thirty minutes, she's sitting in the chair at her desk, cell phone pressed against her ear. The non-emergency line rings twice before he picks it up.

"Sheriff's office."

He sounds professional and pleasant, everything that an operator should be, and she can't help but grin at him from across the room.

"Hey."

His own lips stretch wide in response and he leans back in his chair, spinning slightly to face her more fully. "Hello."

She doesn't know how long they spend like that, grinning stupidly at each other—he just looks so damn _proud_ of himself, and she's only seen that dimple in his left cheek twice before, and it's a little addicting, seeing the way his eyes light up and crinkle at the edges—but eventually, her phone beeps in her ear, signaling an incoming text, and she hangs up.

The text is from Henry, asking if she wants to meet for an after school snack at Granny's, and as she shrugs into her jacket, she looks over at him, still staring down at the bulky old receiver in his hand like it holds some of the best magic in the world.

* * *

She waits until later that night to pull out her laptop, until everyone else has gone to sleep and it's just her in her bedroom at the loft.

She scrolls slowly through the different selections, comparing features and reviews until she finally settles on one.

(She thinks it's an enormous testament to how far she's come when her finger only hesitates for a few short seconds before clicking, adding it to her Amazon cart.)

She throws in the newest Call of Duty game for Henry and a ridiculous, unicorn printed onsie for baby Neal and has the box shipped to the sheriff's station to avoid prying fingers and eyes.

(She doesn't know if Henry or Mary Margaret would be more prone to peeking, but she's not exactly keen on finding out.)

She stares at the computer screen for a long time after the order is complete.

* * *

The box arrives on a Wednesday morning.

She cuts through the packing tape easily with one of David's pocket knives, and rifles through the contents before coming up with the small, sleek rectangular package.

She fumbles with opening the flaps, sliding the phone out of its cardboard casing and taking a moment to look at it. It's small enough to fit easily in her palm, no need for two hands like some of the newer models. It has a simple interface, just enough applications to make it up to date, without being over the top.

She unlocks the screen with a swipe of her thumb, and taps on the small phone book icon before getting to work.

* * *

She finds him the next evening at the diner, sidled up to the bar between Robin and Ruby, rings glittering in the fluorescent lighting as he sweeps his arm spectacularly, in the middle of spinning some yarn or another.

Ruby catches sight of her first, smirking knowingly as she slides off her stool, making room right next to him. The brunette winks, squeezing Emma's forearm as she slips around the backside of the counter.

He looks over as she perches on the edge of the recently vacated stool, pausing his story to grin at her. She smiles back, accepting the tankard he nudges in her direction if only to give her hands something to do other than twist nervously in her lap.

Robin lingers for a minute or two, politely excusing himself with some excuse about finding Roland and getting ice cream.

(She makes a mental note to buy him a drink later for not bringing up the fact that Killian was paying much more attention to the cut of her sweater than his own tale.)

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Swan?" Killian asks as the leader of the Merry Men pushes his way out the door. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright, and she would blame it on the ale, but she's seen that look more than a few times in the last couple of days, and none of those instances had involved any measure of alcohol whatsoever.

She feels the heat creep embarrassingly high in her neck, and she smiles, tugging on the sleeve of his coat. "C'mon. Let's go somewhere."

The face he makes at her suggestion is downright wolfish, and she rolls her eyes as she leads him towards the lobby of the inn, pretending not to feel the way his eyes trace down her backside as they walk.

Thankfully, they find the front room empty. She pauses next to an overstuffed couch, which he rather unceremoniously plops down on, and hesitates, her hand hovering toward the pocket of her leather jacket.

"Everything all right, love?"

She nods jerkily, swallowing down her nerves as she tries to look everywhere _but_ him.

It lasts about two and a half seconds, and then he is leaning towards her, head dipping down to catch her eye. His gaze is soft, and she's torn between relief and irritation—how does he always just _know_?—at the understanding she sees there. His hand finds hers, and he pulls gently, leading her down on the sofa next to him.

"Open book, remember?"

She manages a choked laugh, and he smiles in response, his arm coming to rest along the back of the couch. She feels his fingers tangle in just the ends of her hair, and the gesture is soothing, calming her enough so that she can finally speak.

"I got you something," she says, and her own words bring her up short for a moment. She thinks back, thinks _hard_, but she can't remember a time that she's ever said those words to another—friend? Boyfriend?

(There was that one time with Walsh and the cashmere sweater, but she doesn't really count that, because she wasn't really _her_.)

Out of all of the men that she's been with, she doesn't ever remember buying a single thing of consequence for any of them, not even Neal, and if that's the truth—if he's the _first_, just like he has been for so many other—

She cuts herself off before she really gets worked up, and forces herself to breathe.

When she glances over at him, sliding her eyes shyly over to his, she finds him watching her, his face open and easy, an amused quirk tilting up the corners of his mouth, just waiting for her to continue.

_Be patient_, she'd told him.

She offers up a weak smile, and his fingers skim along the seam of her shoulder, reassuring.

"I always have enjoyed trinkets," he says mildly. "Comes with the territory, I suppose."

This time, her smile is genuine, and so is his, and it gives her enough courage to draw her hand out of her pocket, holding the small device out to him.

He glances down at it curiously, his hand moving from her shoulder to take it delicately. "Is this-?"

"A phone," she finishes. "Like the one at the sheriff's station. Only, this one you can carry with you."

He stares down at it, sliding his thumb over the screen experimentally—she wonders, for a moment, how he knows to do that, but then she remembers that she's _always_ on her phone, checking in with Henry or David, and he's _always_ with her—and the phone unlocks. She had set a picture of a beach as his wallpaper, feeling silly and corny at the time, but his face takes on a wistful expression when he sees it, and she feels herself grow warm from the inside out in response.

"Thank you, Emma," he murmurs after a moment, his eyes flickering up to hers. She smiles, the warmth in her chest morphing into a bubble of air, pressing out and up and making her feel as though she could float right off the couch.

"It's a little bit different from what you're used to," she tells him, scooching closer so that she can lean over his shoulder. He shifts as well, and then they're pressed together from shoulder to knee, his torso twisted to face her as she begins her tutorial.

She has a sneaking suspicion, as she explains what a text message is, that he isn't paying the slightest bit of attention to the phone.

* * *

It's late when she returns home, her body thrumming with energy and her fingers itching to feel the silky slip of his hair again. She lets herself into the loft, tiptoeing past a sleeping Mary Margaret and David, and tugging a blanket higher up around Henry's shoulders as she passes the couch. When she finally reaches her bed, she flops down on the mattress fully dressed, not even bothering with her boots.

She's tired in a contented sort of way, hair still mussed and lips kiss-bitten—their parting good night had been rather vigorous—and as she drifts into a sort of half-sleep, she almost doesn't feel her phone vibrate.

She fumbles around her jacket pocket for a moment before finally finding it, and she frowns when she pulls it out to see an unknown number flashing across the screen.

"Emma Swan," she answers, pushing herself up on one elbow and trying to force the sleep from her voice.

"Hello."

She recognizes the voice on the other end of the line instantly, and she can't help but grin. "Hey."

"I trust you made it home safely?" he asks, and God, her imagination was sorely lacking in comparison to the reality of Killian Jones speaking directly to her—to her and _only_ her.

She hums in answer, finagling one foot loose from its boot before toeing off the other. She shrugs awkwardly out of her jacket—she is, after all, lying on a bed with a phone pressed to her ear—before finally settling back onto the pillows. "Did you?"

He chuckles, the sound low and rumbling and _delicious_. "The twelve steps from Granny's parlor to my room were without incident, yes."

The bed is soft underneath her, a gentle breeze from the open window stirring the hair around her face; it's nearly one o'clock in the morning, and she's talking to _him_ on the phone, and she thinks right then and there that this is a moment if she's ever seen one.

"Good."

* * *

The next morning, the town loses power, and in the midst of all the panicked citizens, she struggles to find some way to stay calm and focused.

Her phone is in her hand before she even realizes it, the number already dialed.

He answers on the second ring. "Emma?"

"I need your help," she says without preamble.

She can hear the grin in his voice when he says, "Anything for the lady."


	6. Lumière

**Lumière**

(rated K; spoilers and spec for 4x04)

* * *

She finds him at the harbor when it's all said and done, leaning against the railing of the dock. He glances up as she approaches, offering a wan smile, and she's almost too tired to offer her own in return as she slumps next to him.

"So," she says, wincing when she shifts her weight, the movement tweaking what she's beginning to think could be a sprained ankle. She toes off her heels, sighing audibly as she sinks down several inches, the cool wood of the dock soothing her aching soles. "Interesting night."

He snorts, lifting his flask to his lips and taking a short draw before offering it to her. "To say the least."

She turns to face him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the muscle ticking in his jaw. They look a right mess, the pair of them, him with his disheveled hair and untucked shirt tails and her with her dirt-smudged dress and a pattern of tiny scrapes crisscrossing her bare arms. She hands the flask back to him, and for the first time, notices the split knuckles of his left hand, the bruises blooming there.

Frowning, she reaches out for his clenched fist, her fingers tracing delicately over the abrasions. "What happened here?"

He clears his throat, free hand finding that spot on his neck. "I don't rightly recall. It was—already there."

Comprehension dawns suddenly, and she feels her eyes widening. "Ah."

A silence falls between them, not quite comfortable but not quite awkward, and she peeks over at him out of the corner of her eye, watching as he stares off across the water. Her heart constricts painfully in her chest; his eyes are glazed over with unshared memories, and in that moment, he's never before seemed quite as old, the weight of many, many lifetimes settling into the lines of his forehead and tugging the corners of his lips down.

"Was it worth it?"

The question's been on the tip of her tongue all night, forced back for the sake of pretty roses and flickering candlelight, but now it's just the two of them, standing shoulder to shoulder on a dock at the old pier, and at some point in the last four hours, she lost the innocence of her elegant coiffeur, and he turned the collar of his new leather jacket up against the world.

They tried for dewy eyes and shy smiles, but nothing about either one of their lives has been delicate, and they fall back into being bruised and battered so easily that it's almost scary.

He turns to face her, expression unreadable, and lifts his left hand to trace a line down the side of her cheek, down the column of her throat, over the curve of her shoulder. His fingers slide back into the tangle of her hair, and she swallows compulsively.

"This?" he murmurs, tugging just the slightest bit on the ends of her long strands before smoothing his palm down the expanse of her back. "Absolutely. Everything else?"

He pulls her closer with a gentle pressure at the base of her spine, and she goes willingly, leaning against his chest as he presses a kiss to her forehead. "That remains to be seen."

It's the answer she feared—Rumplestiltskin _is_ a known collector of souls—but she knows it's the truth, so she nods mutely against the ridge of his collarbone, her arms finding their way around his waist.

"It would've been okay," she says softly after a moment. She feels him tense beneath her cheek, and she tightens her embrace reflexively in response. She thinks, idly, that it's the first time she's held him like this, voluntarily, and not on the heels of any possibly life-threatening tragedies, and it makes her heart thrum a little quicker. "It _is _okay. You don't have anything to prove to me."

His fingers move to the straps of the dress she'd borrowed from Mary Margaret, and he rubs pointedly. "Neither do you."

She leans back to look up at him, and he's giving her a wry smile. She can't quite help it when her own lips curve up at the corners, head shaking slightly, raising up on tip-toe. He meets her half way—_just like he always _does—his mouth warm and firm, tongue languid against hers, and she doesn't remember a time when she last did this, kissed someone for the sake of kissing.

It could be seconds or hours that pass, but when they finally break apart, her breathing is ragged, and if she thought her heart was pounding before, well…

He lowers his head, nuzzling into the crook of her neck and pressing a series of kisses down to the point of her shoulder. "I do like the dress."

She grins as he straightens, his hand slipping dangerously low on her hips. "I thought you might. I seem to remember a penchant for uncomfortably tight and inappropriately low-cut."

He hums in agreement, the first genuine smile she's seen since she found him lighting his features. "A cross I'm all too willing to bear, my love," he quotes in mock solemnity, and the air catches in the back of her throat at his newest term of endearment. Her hand moves slowly up his chest, over the buttons of his vest, to play with the pendant that hangs from his neck. His skin is warm beneath her fingers, and she wants to press harder, feel the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm, and the strength of the sudden desire to see all of his defenses stripped away has her swallowing back emotion.

"The jeans are nice," she admits, glancing up at him from under her lashes. "And the jacket."

He merely chuckles, angling himself so that his other arm can come around her, and it's such a foreign feeling, _two_ hands tracing up and down the length of her spine instead of one, and she almost says something—some stupid joke or quip—but then he's leaning down to rest his forehead against hers, eyes falling closed, and the expression on his face is so bittersweet that it makes her chest ache.

"We'll figure it out," she whispers, and when his eyes flutter open a moment later, she doesn't think she's ever seen them quite so bright.

"Aye," he replies. "That we will."

She smiles softly, hands sliding down his arms to take both of his—_both_ of his. Their fingers lace together like it's the most natural thing in the world, and the most infectious grin she's ever seen in her life splits wide across his face.

Yes, she thinks, it was absolutely worth it—whatever the cost—for him to have this one moment of pure happiness.

She leans forward to press a kiss—hard and quick—to his mouth, and then she's bending down to collect her shoes, leading him back up the dock by the hand. "Come on. Let's stop by Granny's on the way home."

* * *

Granny has long since left the diner when they arrive, but she pulls two pins from her hair, and in a handful of seconds, they're tripping over the threshold. His lips find her bare shoulder, and she laughs at some lewd comment that he whispers in her ear, shoving him down onto a barstool as she rounds the back side of the counter.

She grabs two mugs from a lower cupboard, and by the time she turns around, he's juggling packets of coffee creamer, tongue poking out from between his teeth in concentration.

She fills the mugs with milk and sticks them in the microwave before snapping her fingers, teleporting the creamers to a table in the far corner.

He cocks an eyebrow, expression a mixture of pride and amusement, and she winks, tugging him closer to murmur a description of what _else_ she can vanish into the side of his neck.

He pulls her, quite bodily, up over the counter, and her mugs of cocoa are forgotten as she straddles his lap, fingers finding purchase in the silky strands of his hair.

There's a time and a place, she thinks, for linen napkins and crystal goblets and salad forks, and there is definitely a part of her that can't wait to get dressed up again, to curl her hair and put on another killer bra and panty set.

But, as they squish into one of the single booths, her legs thrown carelessly across his lap, his thumb rubbing circles into the throbbing skin of her ankle, each of them nursing a lukewarm mug of cocoa, she knows that this—_this_—is what it's all about.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, and she knows eight o'clock is going to come way too soon, and he keeps interrupting the story she's trying to tell with kisses.

She wouldn't trade it for the world.


	7. Where the Heart Is

**Where the Heart Is**

(rated K)

* * *

She's barely made it down the stairs, her foot hovering in the air above the last step, when Henry is on her, flapping the morning edition of the classifieds around and hitting her with a barrage of questions about how many square feet they need and if they want two bedrooms or three.

She pauses, briefly, and sends him a scalding look before continuing into the kitchen where there's a pot of fresh coffee waiting for her—_thank God_. He follows along behind her, chattering the whole way, and it isn't until she's swallowed one massive gulp that she finds it in her to speak.

"Christ, kid. It's like eight a.m. Where's the fire?"

"It's Saturday," he says, as if that should explain everything, and when she fixes him with what she's sure is a blank look, he rolls his eyes. "I don't have any school," he continues, jutting his head out and raising both eyebrows, his expression clearly saying _isn't it obvious?_ "That means we can go look at places."

He brandishes the classifieds page again, and when the pieces finally click together, she groans.

"Henry, I really don't think—"

"No," he interrupts, and the firmness in his tone pulls her up short. "You made the decision to stay in Storybrooke. You have your family here, and your job, and Killian. There's no reason to want to leave. So since you're staying, I think it's time for you to find us a place to live. I don't know if you've noticed or not, but it's getting a little crowded here."

He looks pointedly towards the couch, where he's been sleeping for the last couple of weeks, and she feels a pang of guilt. He's right, she knows that—and the way he'd said it, _find us a place to live_, warms her heart more than she'd ever admit—but she's still got enough of the old Emma in her to hesitate.

She's never lived in a place like this before, a place where she has friends and family and a job that doesn't involve chasing after low-lifes in skimpy dresses and strappy heels. It's a place where she can see her future, more than just a couple of months ahead.

She sighs, resignedly, and brings a hand up to pinch at the bridge of her nose.

She doesn't have to look to know there's a massive grin stretching across her son's face.

He skips forward, thrusting the paper across the counter towards her, and points at the four ads he'd already circled in bright red Sharpie.

"We can start with these. They looked like the best."

* * *

An hour later finds her trekking down Main Street, Henry and Mary Margaret on either side. They're on their way to the first place Henry had found, a small bungalow in the middle of town.

As they approach, it becomes clear that it's been vacant for a while; the shutters hang loose on the front window, the siding is in bad need of a fresh coat of paint, and the porch creaks when they step up to the front door.

"I don't know about this, Henry," she says, as Mary Margaret pulls a set of keys out of her pocket. Apparently, the title of 'mayor' was also synonomous with 'real estate agent' in Storybrooke, because her office had a cabinet that contained keys to all the locks in all the buildings in town. "It looks like it needs a little work."

Mary Margaret has to shove on the door a couple of times before it opens, and she gives Henry a look, but he merely rolls his eyes. "That's what magic is for, Mom."

She doesn't really have a comeback for that—other than the standard _all magic comes with a price_ that she and Mary Margaret parrot absentmindedly in unison—because it's never really been an option before.

The house looks better on the inside than the outside—although, it definitely needs some sprucing up—but it doesn't feel right, all the rooms small and boxy, the whole space feeling rather closed-off. They don't stay longer than ten minutes before moving on to the next, a townhome a little bit farther into the residential part of town that shares the same fate as the bungalow.

The third property is a little too far out, its whitewashed planks and remote location reminding her a little too much of Zelena's cabin in the woods.

She can tell that Henry is feeling discouraged as they head towards the fourth and final property, and she slings an arm around his shoulders, ruffling his hair as he halfheartedly shoves her away.

"Don't worry, kid. We'll find something. It just takes time."

They turn the corner into the driveway leading up to a small cottage, and she stops short, her words ringing oddly prophetic in her ears.

The cottage is the last on the street, its generous yard overlooking the harbor and the line of ships moored there. A wrap around porch curls its way around the entire structure, the craftsman columns contrasting pleasantly against the pale yellow siding.

She can feel Henry's gaze on her face, and she knows he feels it too—this unidentifiable, welcoming sense of _home_. She studiously avoids his eye as they climb the front steps and walk through the door, knowing that she has to be practical, that she can't make a knee-jerk decision on something as subjective as a _feeling_.

She walks carefully through the house's large, open living space and two spare bedrooms, silently admiring as Henry and Mary Margaret gush about the kitchen cabinet space and the bathroom's claw foot tub and the built-ins in the living room that would be a perfect spot for their DVD collection.

It isn't until she walks into the master bedroom, though, that she really, _really_ just _knows_.

The far wall is made up almost entirely of windows, with a set of beautiful antique French doors leading out onto the porch, which overlooks the activity of the harbor.

She slowly crosses the room, carefully turning the knobs of the French doors. She steps out onto the porch, closing her eyes when a breeze that smells of salt and sand stirs her hair.

It feels like _home_, in a way that makes her think of Christmas dinners and lazy Sunday mornings, and nights spent curled on the couch with her son and her—

"Whoa! Look at that view!"

Henry's voice startles her from her reverie, and as she comes back to the present, she expects to feel panic at where her thoughts had been heading.

Instead, she feels a thrill of anticipation, a flutter of excitement in her stomach.

Henry looks up at her, eyes bright and cheeks pink and hair mussed, as he leans over the railing of the porch, and she can't help but smile back.

"It's close to the sheriff's station," he points out, and she thinks she has an idea of where this is going. "And it's right on the harbor."

His expression is entirely too knowing, and the way Mary Margaret's eyes sparkle conspiratorially makes fighting a blush awfully hard.

Henry's smile stretches into a grin. "There's lots of _room to grow_."

Mary Margaret snickers, and she says nothing, hooking her arm through Henry's and tugging him back towards the front door.

"C'mon, wise guy. We've got some thinking to do."

* * *

She takes the night shift at the station, as is her normal Saturday night custom, and Killian joins her promptly five minutes after David leaves, as is his custom.

He appears at the door to her office, tapping the glass with the back of his hook and offering up a cup of Granny's to-go. She smiles as she rises from her chair, accepting the Styrofoam cup and the kiss that comes with it.

Since the defeat of the Snow Queen and Rumplestiltskin's resulting banishment, crime has been nearly nonexistent, and often, the twelve hours of her shift creep by painfully slowly. Sometimes, she and Killian pass the time talking; other times, they play card games, or watch Netflix on the computer at her desk.

Tonight, though, she doesn't feel much like games or TV, and she's got too much rolling around in her head to talk. He picks up on this as effortlessly as he does everything else, and after depositing his own cup of coffee on the edge of the desk, he drops down into the chair across from her, producing a small, leather-bound book from his jacket pocket. She cocks an eyebrow in question, and he tilts the cover so that she can see the title—_Robinson Crusoe_.

"The Lady Belle leant it to me," he says by way of explanation, and she finds herself marveling yet again at the unlikely friendship that the resident librarian and her pirate seem to have struck up, especially considering he once tried to kill her.

He delves into his book—propping it up carefully on his lap with the tip of his hook, good hand alternating between flipping pages and lifting his coffee to his lips—and she spends a good hour pretending to do paperwork while really just staring at the single gold key lying next to her mouse.

She knew she had found the perfect house—or what could be the perfect house. There was just one thing missing.

Abruptly, she stands, fingers fisting around the key, and he glances up at her, his expression perplexed.

"Let's go patrol," she says, and he doesn't question, closing his book around a scrap piece of paper and rising to follow her.

Her hands tremble as she locks up the station door behind them, and she forces herself to take a deep breath, to try and quell the adrenaline pumping through her veins. She doesn't even try to feign her usual disinterest as she climbs in the driver's seat of the cruiser and eases it carefully out of its parking spot. She drives past her normal turn, and she can feel Killian's confusion, palpable in the silence between them, as she heads straight for the cottage.

He remains silent, even as she pulls into the driveway, trusting her to explain in her own time. She feels a surge of affection so overwhelming that it's nearly breathtaking, and it gives her enough confidence to put the car in park and open the door.

She climbs the front steps, heading straight past the front room and the kitchen and the den, all the way down the dark hall to the bedroom at the very back. Killian's footsteps echo behind her every step of the way, and when she comes to a stop in the middle of the room, facing the wall of windows, she feels him sidle up next to her, his dark coat and pants making him nearly invisible in the shadows.

"I don't recall there being a call from this address," he says, and even though his voice sounds carefully mild, she can see his expression out of the corner of her eye, can see the way his gaze is calculating and questioning, reading her like he always does.

She shakes her head, holding up the key in her hand as a partial explanation. "Henry and I went looking at houses today."

It takes him about two and a half seconds to catch up. "This is the one you like the best."

It's not a question, but she nods anyway, finally chancing a glance in his direction. His face is thoughtful as he gazes around the room, sharp eyes taking in all the details, even in the lack of daylight.

Silence stretches between them for several moments, and the apprehension that it brings knots her stomach.

When she can't stand it anymore, she asks, "What do you think?"

Her voice sounds breathless and nervous, a teenager wanting the approval of her crush, and it makes her wince a little bit. He catches it as he turns to face her, his expression softening into a smile as he reaches for her hand.

"I think," he says, threading his fingers carefully through hers and tugging her closer, "that finding a home is a big step."

She knows he understands, knows that the significance of finding a place and settling down is not lost on him, and she smiles up at him from under her lashes when he brings their joined hands up to wind around her shoulders. She feels the pressure of his lips, warm and familiar and comforting, against her forehead, and she closes her eyes, leaning farther into his chest.

"It's something not undeserved by the resident Saviour," he murmurs, and she can't help the wry snort that escapes her lips, or the way her heart seems to swell in her chest at his praise.

She pulls back just far enough to look at his face, and even though she thinks she knows the answer, she still needs to hear him say the words. "So you like it?"

He cocks an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk tugging up the corners of his lips, and for a moment, she's terrified he's going to ask something to put her on the spot—_does it matter if I like it_?

But he doesn't and she barely manages to hide her sigh of relief. His eyes are intense in that way that used to make her uncomfortable but now just makes the blood pound, heavy and thick, through her veins.

He lifts his hook to brush a strand of hair out of her face. "You're comfortable here. It makes you happy. Of course I like it."

She's still getting used to this, these moments of raw and open honesty that come so easy to him, and she wishes for the umpteenth time that she had similar words to say.

She doesn't, though, and the best she can manage is a strangled "Good" around the lump in her throat when she presses her forehead against the ridge of his collar bone and winds her arms around his waist.

* * *

She signs a year lease the following Monday, and even though her fingers tremble when she grips the pen, her resolve is as sure and steady as his hand, a gentle pressure on the small of her back.


	8. Beat on (boats against a current)

**Beat on (boats against a current)**

**(rated K)**

* * *

Her voice is frantic, crackling through the speaker as soon as he answers her call, all harsh vowels and clipped syllables and some jumbled mess of _the author_ and _found a way to set him free_ and _bastard's on the run_.

He presses the phone closer to his ear, frowning in confusion, and asks her to slow down.

"Damnit, I—" Her voice cracks and something in his chest breaks with it. "I just need _help_, Killian."

His feet are moving before she even finishes her sentence, pounding out a rhythm against the docks as he tells her to stay put, he'll be right there.

* * *

He finds her in the middle of Main Street, pacing back and forth beneath the solitary traffic signal. She is almost sickly pale in the moonlight, doe eyes wide and wild. She tells him what happened, words flying a mile a minute, and he feels the blood in his veins turn to ice.

She released the author.

The author is on the run.

"We have to find him. We have to catch up to him before they do."

He swallows around the fear that is creeping up his throat and threatening to choke the air from his lungs, reaches for her instead, brushing the hair absently back from her shoulders, fingers tracing down the seam of her jacket.

"Emma, there's nothing he can do to you." His voice sounds rough to his own ears, raw and ragged with emotion, and she tilts her head to the side, brow creasing in confusion. "I swear to you, that bloody Crocodile won't lay a _finger _on you—"

"You think _that's_ what I'm worried about? Rumpelstiltskin?" Her laugh is harsh, bordering shrill. "I don't give two shits what that sparkly elf wants to do to me."

His gut tells him that she's lying, but only a little bit, and it's his turn to be confused, because if's that's not what she's worried about, then what is it?

He doesn't have to wait long to find out.

"If they get to him before we do, this whole town could be in danger, not just me."

He realizes that she's right—of course she is—but he's much more concerned about her safety than anyone else's, and they haven't got a shot in hell of catching anyone if they run off half-cocked. He pulls in a steadying breath—his heart is too old for this, he's sure; one of these days, she's going to be the death of him—and begins to formulate a plan.

"There's little we can do about it at this hour, love, especially on our own." She opens her mouth to protest, but he doesn't give her a chance. "You should go home, get some rest. We'll regroup in the morning, when we have everyone together."

He almost misses the tic in her jaw when he says the word _home_, but he doesn't, and it's then he belatedly realizes that she's yet to reconcile with her parents.

"You're not going back to the loft."

It's an observation, not a question, and he watches as her chin lifts defiantly, shoulders squaring. She's got nothing but the clothes on her back, and he knows her better than to think she would go for a room at Granny's, which leaves her little yellow car as her only other option.

He sighs, bringing his hand up to rub across his forehead before dropping it down to rest lightly on the small of her back. "C'mon, then. Let's go."

It's a testament to how far they've come when she leans her head against his shoulder and doesn't ask where he's taking her.

* * *

He wakes with a start, groaning when the movement jostles at the crick in his neck. It takes him a moment to realize the bunk next to him is empty, sheets thrown back haphazardly.

His first instinct is to panic, to reach forward and press his fingers against the cool pillow, but then he catches sight of her boots still lined up at the foot of the bed, her jacket still thrown carelessly over a chair at the table.

He pulls in a breath, and it's then that he hears the creaking of the deck overhead, too measured and methodical to be anything but footsteps, and he pushes himself up out of the chair beside the bed.

The night is clear, cool with a touch of a southerly breeze. He can see her silhouetted against the bow, moonlight glancing off the flaxen strands in her hair. He approaches slowly, giving her time to collect herself if need be, but when he sidles up next to her, forearms coming to rest on the railing, she greets him with a small smile and dry eyes.

"I tried to be quiet."

"A good captain always knows when there's someone above decks," he teases lightly, and she snorts, leaning her shoulder against his.

"Do good captains always have such ridiculous lines?"

He slips his arm low around her waist, pulling her closer, humming his confirmation into the crown of her head. "Of course. It's how we gain the company of such beautiful women."

He feels more than hears her chuckle, just a quick puff of breath against his collarbone. "I don't doubt it."

Her words hint at something more, a story, perhaps, of a trip back in time with a man not so different, but not so the same; but he doesn't press. He knows his past and he knows the way her body looks in a corset and he knows what he had been privy to seeing in his own captain's quarters.

He slides his hand up the ridge of her spine, over the tension settled between her shoulder blades. "All right, love?"

She lets out a breath, a shaky exhale that mists in the air in front of them. "I'm just trying to understand."

Her eyes slip over the harbor, and he waits patiently for her to continue, fingers tracing absentminded patterns over the thin material of her shirt.

"They took a _baby_. An innocent baby."

He settles on his elbow, tilting his upper body so that he can look at her. Her eyes were dry before, but now they're glassy, her quivering bottom lip caught between her teeth. "They were trying to protect you."

She rolls her eyes up, an irritated huff leaving her lips. "I can protect my own damn self."

He doesn't fight the grin that quirks up the corner of his mouth, nor does he fight the impulse to reach out and thumb the single dimple in her left cheek. "Aye. And you do a hell of a job at it, lass. But think, for a moment. Put yourself in their shoes. What would you have done with Henry?"

"I would have loved him." Her answer comes, fierce and immediate, before the words have entirely left his lips. If her eyes were glassy before, they're nearly overflowing now, and she blinks several times in quick succession as she tears her gaze away again, and sharp inhale lifting her shoulders.

"I would have loved him," she repeats, softer this time. "Just the way he was. No matter who, or what, he turned out to be."

He doesn't have a reply for that, so instead of speaking, he leans forward, arm slipping around her hips and tugging her back against his chest. He holds her as they both look out over the water, lips pressing against her temple every so often, and tries not to count to number of tears that land on his forearm.

* * *

The first thing he's cognizant of the second time he wakes is the feeling of cool fingers ghosting over the lines of his face, combing back tendrils of hair from his forehead. A pair of lips press feather soft against the underside of his jaw, and he resists the urge to shift onto his side and return the affection.

"Careful, Swan," he murmurs as the tips of her fingers slip down the column of his throat. "Too many mornings like this, and you'll spoil a man."

He blinks open one eye just in time to catch her smile, and the accompanying shade of pretty pink that paints the apples of her cheeks, and he can't help but grin.

"Sorry," she says, though the glint in her eyes speaks a different sentiment altogether. His hand slides up over her shoulder, cupping the back of her neck to pull her down for a long, languid kiss, and he's not entirely sure he isn't still dreaming, caught in some fantasy world.

"No need to apologize, darling." His words are muffled when he presses them into the skin of her neck, and it would be easy—so, so easy—to lean forward, roll her back onto the bed and continue what he's started.

But there's an author on the loose, and her son will be calling any moment, he's sure, and he wants more for her—for _them_—than a narrow bunk on his ship.

He rests his forehead against her shoulder for a moment, catching his breath, and just as he's opening his mouth to speak, she beats him to it, nails scratching lightly at the base of his neck.

"No need to apologize, darling."

Her accent is terrible—all exaggerated vowels, _dah-ling_. A smile curves up the edges of his lips as he pulls back just far enough to meet her teasing gaze, head shaking. She grins, thumb reaching up to trace over his bottom lip, and he's struck by how _intimate_ it is—this moment, just the two of them, less than half a foot of space between them. They're both fully dressed, her under the covers and him atop them, but it's still an intimacy he hasn't felt for a long, long time—never thought he _could _feel again—and something in his chest aches, that tender spot on his heart where all the weight of his love for her rests.

She has the power to break him, he knows, and that would be it.

There would be no coming back from Emma Swan.

It's terrifying and exhilarating, and he doesn't have the words to tell her yet—he doesn't think she would run, not now, but there's no way in hell he's risking it—so he swallows back the lump that's risen in his throat and tries for a smile instead.

* * *

"I'm happy you got her back."

He watches her gaze trail over the shapes of the ship that are achingly familiar to him. He could trace her in his sleep, he's certain of it, and as glad as he is to have her at hand once more, he knows he would've been content with the opposite outcome, as well.

It isn't a mast and rigging, or a gleaming mahogany deck that holds his heart anymore. The thrill of the fight and the fire of vengeance no longer heat his blood and set his heart racing.

The woman next to him, clasping his hand in her own, does all that and so much more.

Still, he smiles when she glances over at him, a nod in the tilt of his head. "As am I."

She slips her free arm up around his elbow—a comforting gesture, a familiar one, now—as they make their way down the gangplank and onto the dock.

"Maybe one of these days I'll get an actual tour." He catches her teasing smile, and it makes something in his stomach flip to see her happy, to think that he had any part in that happiness.

He hums his acquiescence. "Perhaps. You should know that pirates don't share their treasure with just anyone, however."

She snorts. "Good thing I'm not just anyone, then."

He merely grins, unable to deny her. He's unable to deny her anything, it seems, en route as they are to meet her parents for what will undoubtedly be an uncomfortable breakfast.

He'd be lying if he said there was anywhere else he would rather be.

They fall into an easy silence as they make their way to Granny's, and they're but a block away when she tugs him to a stop.

He glances down, a frown already taking form on his face. He doesn't get a chance to ask, however; in the next second, she's reaching up on her tiptoes, fingers against the line of his jaw. The kiss starts out gentle, chaste. But then he feels her tongue against the seam of his lips, and it's a little intoxicating, the way she tastes like rum from his flask, and the way the scent of lye from his sheets lingers in her hair and on her skin, and he can't help it when his hand finds its way to the back of her head, burying in the silky strands there. Her arms slip down around his waist, fingers tracing the base of his spine beneath the leather of his jacket, and maybe it's the feeling of their bodies pressed together from chest to knee that elicits that positively sinful sound from the back of her throat, or maybe it's the way he bites down—just the slightest bit, completely unintentionally—on the flesh of her bottom lip, but one way or another, he finds himself stumbling blindly towards the closest alley, dragging her with him, reaching out with his hooked arm to cushion her landing as he shoves her, somewhat bodily, against the wall. Her hands are fisted in the material of his shirt, holding him close, and it's a little bit Neverland and a little bit trip-to-the-past and a little bit something entirely new and different in a way that has his blood rushing and his heart tripping and his whole soul falling deeper and deeper. He feels it in her, too, the way she meets him move for move, the way her fingers press into his chest, just over his heart, and linger over the skin of his wrist and the pulse point in his neck.

It's like nothing they've ever shared before, and when they finally break apart, he takes careful measures to catalogue the flush that trickles down under her neckline and rises high in her cheeks, the way her eyes look when the pupils are blown wide and black with want, and he thinks that Emma Swan is beautiful all the time, but she is absolutely _glorious_ when her lips are kiss-bitten red and his fingers are still twisted in her hair.

"You better not say something gentlemanly right now," she rasps, and the sound of her voice tightens his gut. "It might ruin the moment."

He leans down to press his lips against her temple, the curve of her cheek, the corner of her mouth. Their breath mingles together, and he's tempted to just say screw the bloody author, but he knows they can't.

"As you wish."

She leans forward, away from the wall, and for a moment they sway together, clutching onto each other. Her hand cups his cheek, and he leans into her touch, letting his eyes fall closed as his heart rate finally begins to return to normal.

"I thought gratitude was in order."

He blinks, looking at her in confusion, and her eyes tell him everything he needs to know. She's never been one for words, Emma, but he can read her like a bloody open book. Maybe there will be time, later, for long winded confessions and flowery words, but this is all he needs—his savior in his arms, her kiss still burning on his lips, and all the things she can't quite bring herself to say yet shining clear as day in the emerald of her eyes.

He feels gentle affection soften his expression, and he smiles—a real smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. Her arms slip down once more around his, and he takes a moment to press a kiss against her forehead before they once again start making their way to Granny's.

"Anything for you, my love."


	9. Ticking Clocks

**Ticking Clocks**

_(rated T for mild language and sensuality; spoilers for 4x19 and spec for 4x20)_

* * *

He knows she'll be fine.

Really, he does.

She's been on her own for most of her life, made her own way, fought her own battles. She's saved herself more times than he'd like to count.

She's smart—smart in a way that's more than book smart, smart in a way that's _smart_ smart, _street smart_—and strong and entirely capable.

(Still, he breathes a sigh of relief when he hugs her goodbye and feels the shape of a gun strapped to the small of her back, because she may be smart and strong and capable, but sometimes, the world can just be a bitch.

He should know.)

She kisses him before she leaves, mouth hard against his, and when she pulls away, there's a moment—just a flicker, really, a split second—where he sees something like second guessing in her eyes, and it makes his chest constrict, just a little bit, because even after all she's done, all the people she's saved, all the darkness she's battled, she still doesn't fully believe in herself.

But he blinks and it's gone, and when she walks to the car, her head is up and her shoulders are back, and she looks every bit the Savior in her red leather armor.

(He used to wonder who would save _her_, if it ever came down to it.

He's since decided he would happily take on the role.

(He always has been a bit too ambitious for his own good.))

He meets her eyes in the rearview mirror, only once, and he smiles, just a little bit.

Every part of him screams to follow after her, to insist on going with her, to be next to her every step of the way, and it feels wrong—_so, so wrong _—to watch her drive away.

Even if she'd let him go, he knows this is something she has to do for herself.

Henry steps up beside him, knocking into his arm with his shoulder. He glances down at the boy to see that his face is a perfect copy of Emma's, lips twisted into a smirk, a single eyebrow curved up.

"Wanna teach me how to play poker while my moms are gone?"

He snorts, and drops a hand down on the back of the boy's neck, guiding him back towards Main Street. "Why don't we get some lunch first?"

* * *

They end up playing poker in the corner booth at Granny's, using fries as chips and a worn deck of cards that Ruby produces from behind the counter. The she-wolf loiters close by, ruffling Henry's hair and keeping their drinks filled and occasionally _tsk_ing when she manages a peek at either one of their hands.

Turns out, Henry's got a wicked poker face, and they've only played two games when his faces splits wide in a grin and he lays a full house across the table.

* * *

Killian walks him back to the loft.

Henry insists he'll be fine, but it's dark and there's more than just one unsavory character skulking around the shadows these days.

(He doesn't mention it to Henry, but he feels something strong and fierce in the pit of his stomach when he thinks about the boy with Emma's chin and Baelfire's eyes and Milah's mop of curls, something that he's a little afraid to put a name on, because as much as he loves Emma, he's also come to care for her son, and while he doesn't quite think of him as _his_—they aren't quite to that point yet, none of them—he has a feeling it wouldn't take much more.)

David answers the door with guarded eyes and a terse smile, clapping Henry on the back, and ushering him inside with a request to help Mary Margaret with the dishes.

The boy goes willingly, and David steps out into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him, and it's a little tense, the silence that stretches between them.

(He hasn't exactly been on the best of terms with Emma's parents, not since _the incident_, when the truth about Emma's destiny had come out and his mind had been a little slow to catch up with his tongue.

He doesn't remember the words he said, just that they were bitter in his mouth and even more acrid in their eyes.)

He lifts his chin, meets David's stare head on, but the spar only holds as a bluff, and less than a minute passes before David's shoulders droop, a heavy sigh escaping him.

He still can't quite bring himself to forgive them their transgressions against the woman he loves—if there's one thing he's become quite good at in his near-three hundred years, it's holding grudges—but he can see the pain in the other man's eyes, and it cracks his resolve, if only slightly.

"Have you heard from her?"

His mind flashes back, three hours and forty seven minutes ago—to say he's been a little on edge is a little bit of an understatement—to two lines of text scrolling across the screen of his phone: _Made it to Massachusetts. I'll call when we're in for the night. X E. _

He nods shortly. "They made it. That's all I know. She said she'd call later."

David lets out a breath Killian didn't know he'd been holding, his eyes closing as his head drops forward in apparent relief.

"Good. That's—that's good. I'm glad she's keeping in touch."

David glances over at him, and he expects a little bit of resentment—anger, or hurt at the very least—but all he sees is guilt and exhaustion.

It twists his gut, then, the words he'd spoken to Emma echoing in his mind—_even heroes make mistakes, love_—and he reaches out to grasp David's arm, briefly, reassuringly.

"I'll let you know when I hear more."

David smiles, and it doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's an effort at least, and Killian's sure the small quirk of his own lips isn't much better.

"We'd appreciate it. Thanks for taking Henry."

"Any time, mate."

A loud, wailing shriek from the babe effectively ends their exchange, and as Killian heads back towards the docks, he pauses to glance back at the loft's open window.

He can see Mary Margaret, rocking a small bundle in a chair in the corner, David leaning against the counter with Henry, the boy gesturing wildly as he no doubt recounts their day, and if he were any more naïve, he might think that it's the picture of a perfect family.

He's lived enough to know that there's no such thing.

* * *

It's late when he hears the tone on his phone that signals a text message—nearly two in the morning—but he hasn't slept a wink, would be lying if he said he was even remotely _tired_, and he snatches up the device almost instantly.

_Still awake?_

His fingers hover over the tiny keypad, but he changes his mind at the last second, hitting the little phone icon.

(It's been nearly twelve hours since he heard from her last, and damn if he doesn't want to _hear_ her, not just see her words typed out on a screen.)

"Hey, you."

Her voice is rough with exhaustion, but she sounds genuinely happy to hear from him. He closes his eyes and really _breathes_ for what feels like the first time since she left, and it's a little bit ridiculous, the effect this woman has on him.

"Hello, love."

"Hang on, give me just a sec." He hears a rustle, a murmured conversation, the sound of a door opening and closing. "Okay, I'm back."

"Did I wake you?" He feels a pang of guilt, laced with more than a little bit of concern, because he's watched her, these past few days, watched the bags grow darker under her eyes, and her skin grow more pale. He knows exactly how much sleep she's gotten, wrapped in the quilt in his bunk on the _Jolly_, and he knows it's not nearly enough for what she's doing.

He can almost hear her shaking her head, though, and her stubbornness brings a rueful smile to his lips. "No, I was awake. It's just—the room's a little crowded."

The way she says the last word, something sarcastic and wry twisting the syllables, has him sitting up straighter. "You found her, then? Your friend?"

Her laugh is little more than a puff of air. "You could say that." He hears another rustle, imagines her running a hand over her face. "Jesus, it's been a long day."

"You should rest."

"You're probably right." There's a pause, and his heart sinks a little, because it's only been three minutes, and—"What did you do today?"

He blinks, a little taken aback, and he must take longer to reply than he realizes, because she sighs, the sound heavy in his ears and on his chest. "I just—it's been a really, really long day, and I really don't want to go back in there and have to deal with it, so let's just talk, okay?"

Her voice is more than a little shaky, and thinking about the way she looks with teardrops clinging to her lashes makes his heart ache, and so he talks, as she asks, tells her about her son and his penchant for gambling—she snorts at that, says something about Henry coming by it naturally, and he catalogues that little tidbit for later, for when it's just him and her and the stakes can be higher than a few soggy potato crisps.

He tells her about Ruby, and her parents, and about the weather, talks until there's nothing left to tell her but how much he misses her, and how being away from her feels like there's a part of him missing.

(He doesn't say it in so many words—in fact, it sounds a lot more like _Would've been a hell of a lot warmer with you around, Swan _ and he tries on purpose to make it sound as obscene as he can, because it always makes her smile when he says stuff like that, even when she doesn't want to.

She doesn't buy it.)

He hears her snort, and then her voice is soft, curling around her words with a gentle affection that makes his stomach flip. "I miss you too."

(He may or may not have to swallow around the lump in his throat.

He really doesn't know when he became this much of a ponce.

He really, really doesn't.

(Oh, but he really does.))

He gives in and just says it, because maybe she needs to hear it as much as he needs to say it, and maybe it's worth it, to lay his heart out on the table, when he knows she'll pick it right up. "I've missed you more than you know, Emma."

He thinks he might hear a sniffle, but then he thinks maybe it's wishful thinking, because when she speaks her voice is still relatively steady. "This bed is too damn soft."

There are lots of things he could say, but what ends up coming out is _Wish I were there to make it a little harder, love?_, and as soon as the words leave his lips, he winces, but she laughs, and even through the phone's crap speaker, it's the most beautiful sound he's heard all day.

Her laugh fades into a yawn, though, and he knows she needs to go, needs to get some sleep, however little it may be.

"Thank you," she says quietly, after a moment, and he smiles softly even though he knows she can't see.

"Any time, darling."

"We should be home sometime tomorrow," she says, and he feels a wave of relief, because it's already nearly three in the morning, and he can do this, he can do a few more hours. "I'll keep in touch."

"Take care of yourself, Swan," he says, because it's the most he _can_ say, at least now.

"You too," she returns. "Watch out for my kid."

"You know I will."

He knows she's smiling, that little smile that she has just for him that softens her eyes and the lines in her face. "I know you will. Goodnight, Killian."

"Goodnight, love."

* * *

He types out a message to David, and even though it's nearly dawn, the prince responds almost immediately.

_Thank you_.

* * *

He doesn't sleep a wink.

(Not that he was expecting to, but. Still.)

He lays flat on his back on the bunk that was his but now feels more like theirs—the pillows smell of her soap, something warm and vanilla, and the quilt draped across his legs is one she'd pilfered from her parents, and every time he closes his eyes, he thinks he feels a whisper of her next to him, the brush of her hair against his face, the chill of her feet against his shins.

It's wishful thinking, and all too soon, he gives up any pretense of trying to rest and simply watches as dawn's first rays of light begin slowly creeping through the cabin's windows.

* * *

He asks Granny twice if she's quite certain her clock hasn't stopped running.

On the third time, her only answer is a hair-raising glare.

He takes a sip of his coffee and pokes at his pile of eggs with a fork, and when Ruby saunters by asking if he'd like something stronger, he seriously considers it.

The phone in his pocket buzzes, then, and he nearly knocks his plate off the table in his haste to retrieve it.

(Granny rolls her eyes from behind the counter, mutters something about _lovesick fools_ and _damned lucky I still take doubloons_.)

It's Emma—of course it is, who else would it be—and it's just a text message, but he can't help but trace a finger over the words, lingering on the little _Xo_ she's put at the end.

He hopes she intends to carry through on that, because he has a feeling that the next four hours will be _excruciating_.

* * *

If he thought time was moving slow before, he's certain now that it must be moving _backwards_.

* * *

He ends up at the library.

Belle takes one look at him—he's sure his eyes are bloodshot, and he's still in yesterday's clothes, and hell, he probably smells like the generous measure of rum Ruby had tipped into his mug—and wordlessly passes him a cart of books.

It's time consuming and tedious, but it's a job that gives his mind little to focus on of any substance, and it isn't long before he becomes fidgety, hook tapping out a rhythm on the edge of the metal cart, fingers flicking absently against the spines of the books he's shelving.

Will comes in at lunch time, a bag of burgers and fries in his hands, and Killian decides that there's something about watching another bloke with his lady that makes you sorely miss your own.

He makes it ten more minutes before he begs off.

* * *

He finds Henry at one of the tables outside the diner, an untouched milkshake in front of him.

"That's going to melt," he points out, rather unhelpfully, as he drops into a seat next to the boy.

Henry merely shrugs, nudging said milkshake towards him in a silent offer, eyes focused on the expanse of Main Street that stretches as far as the eye can see.

Killian checks the time yet again.

A little under an hour left.

* * *

They've taken to playing dice—though it's little more than a task to occupy their hands; both of them know his pair are loaded—when Henry sits up, abruptly, squinting into the afternoon sun.

"Is that-?"

He peers in the same direction, and his heart does a funny little flip in his chest when he does, in fact, see the shape of Emma's little yellow Bug moving towards them.

Henry lets out a whoop that draws the attention of the rest of the diner's patrons before taking off down the street, Killian only seconds behind him.

(The boy runs flat out, and he'd like to think he's a little more dignified, but his jog may or may not be closer to a sprint.)

Emma's barely pulled the car up to the curb, wheels still rolling to a complete stop, when Henry yanks open the door.

A shout of protest is lodged in his throat—he knows from experience that it's not a pleasant ordeal to be hit by one of those driving machines, and Henry is _right there_—but then he hears Emma's laugh, and everything else fades away.

A small part of him notices when Mary Margaret and David come up behind him, both of their breathing a little uneven, but he pays them no mind as he steps down off the curb.

It's a tumble of arms and legs and flapping coats, but somehow, Emma makes it out of the car with Henry still firmly attached to her waist, and he just watches, for a moment, the way her hand comes up to cradle her boy's head, fingers flexing in that unruly mop of hair, and it's a beautiful thing, watching mother and son sway together.

But then she looks up and catches sight of him and she smiles, and the force of it socks him straight in the gut, the breath leaving his lungs with an audible _whoosh_, and he's so stunned that, for a moment, he doesn't realize she's released Henry and is moving towards him, her strides long and purposeful.

He meets her halfway, rocking back on his heels when her body collides with his, and it's almost automatic, the way her arms curl around his neck and his nose buries in the curve of her shoulder.

He closes his eyes and _breathes_, breathes her in, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin, and he knows that half the town is standing right behind them, but damn if he can't help nudging up the edge of her hat with his nose, pressing his lips against that spot, just behind her ear.

She sighs, body melting further into his, and he convinces himself that, when he hefts her up on the tips of her toes—_closer, always closer_—that it's more to keep her from falling than it is to feel every line of her pressed up against him.

(Gentleman, and all that.)

She runs a hand through the hair at the base of his neck, fingernails scraping deliciously against the sensitive skin there, and he swears that he hears his name in her breath.

She pulls back just far enough to find his mouth with hers, and the kiss is chaste, just a quick press of lips, but the look she gives him afterwards looks a lot like a promise of more to come, and he can't help but grin as she drops back down onto the flats of her feet.

"All right, love?"

She sighs, tearing her eyes away from his to glance back at the car, where Regina and Robin and the little lad Roland have appeared, along with a woman he's sure he's never seen before, but still looks vaguely familiar, and—

He would know those crimson curls anywhere.

He feels his eyes go wide, arm automatically tightening around her waist, and she surprises him by chuckling.

She drops her head down onto his shoulder, hand coming up to rest over his heart, and when she speaks, her words are muffled against his jacket.

"Did I mention it's been a _really_ long couple of days?"

* * *

After, when the town has finally descended into some semblance of nighttime quiet, they lay together on the narrow mattress of his bunk.

Her feet are _freezing_ when she presses her toes into his calves, and he has no less than eight pieces of hair in his mouth, but she's _here_, with him, fingers tracing absentminded patterns into the skin of his chest.

Her lips press once, twice, three times against the ridge of his collar bone, and he lets his hand trail lightly up and down her arm, feeling the gooseflesh rise in the wake of his touch.

"Sleep," he murmurs into the darkness, fingers slipping up into the silky slip of her hair. "You need it."

She huffs in good-natured irritation and pushes herself up on one elbow, and he is struck, yet again, by how stunning she is, with moonlight spinning her hair silver and her eyes a deep jade. He lifts his hand to trace the trio of freckles that rest just at the swell of her breast, and contemplates for only a moment before nudging his head closer, mapping a path between them with his tongue.

Her leg slips between his, fingers tightening in the strands of his hair, and he moves higher up her chest, smiling a little against the ridge of her shoulder at her sound of protest.

"_Sleep_," he says again, a little firmer this time, and he can almost hear her eyes rolling.

"I'm not tired." Her voice borders on the edge of a whine, and he presses his lips against the skin of her neck placatingly.

"Lies."

She huffs again, and this time it carries a little more weight. He presses her gently onto her back, lifts a hand to trace the curve of her cheek, and she softens, looking up at him from under her lashes, and he knows it's dark, and that's the more likely reason that her pupils are blown wide and black, but he likes to think that maybe he had a little bit to do with it, too.

(She's going to be the death of him one day, he thinks, with her siren eyes and gold-white hair and the magic she wields in her touch.)

"I missed you."

He smiles softly at her quiet admission, and when he leans forward, she more than willingly meets him halfway. The kiss is long and slow and languid, and it makes something deep in his gut burn with want, and he thinks, maybe, when she tilts her head to take his tongue more fully into her mouth, that he might be a little bit addicted to the way Emma Swan tastes with sweet words like that on her lips.

"I missed you as well," he murmurs between kisses when she pulls back just the slightest bit to catch her breath. "But I'll still be here in the morning, love."

Her arm slips around his waist, head ducking into the space under his chin, and it warms his heart a little to hear her whispered words.

"You better be."


	10. you make me happy (when skies are gray)

**you make me happy (when skies are gray)**

_(rated T for sensuality; spoilers and spec for 5X04.)_

_Little baby bit, because that promo broke me in the best way. _

* * *

It's late—well into the wee hours of the morning—when he sees her.

She floats past the doorway of his room, and the flash of white catches his eye, the torchlight shimmering off the beads sewn into the bodice of her dress. The way she moves—the strange, trance-like quality of her steps—prickles the hair at the nape of his neck, coils a thick ball of dread in the pit of his gut.

This isn't his Emma.

This is the Dark One.

He slips out of the room after her, keeping to the shadows as she moves silently, ethereally through the corridor. She reaches the door to Regina's room, and the ball of dread begins to expand outward, little fingers of ice bursting through the veins.

The dagger.

It wants the dagger.

Panic spurs him into motion, reaches down into his chest and pulls up frantic words that get caught on the tip of his tongue when he sees the flash of blinding light, hears her gasp above the crackle of magic, and her voice, not seconds later.

"I _can't_."

His brow furrows as he takes a step closer, eyes seeking out another form in the darkness, but there is no one. And then he remembers.

_What are you doing here?_

"Leave me alone. Stop. _Get out of my head!_"

Her words—broken, cracked, desperate, _pleading_—bring him back to the present, and he takes another step, another, resolve steeling—

He ducks, only narrowly missing the brilliant jet of light, following it as it shoots just over his head and disappears into the darkness. He hears her sharp inhale, and he turns, focus shifting entirely to the woman in front of him.

Her face is a mask of terror and horror, eyes wide in her pale face, and he holds out a hand as he eases closer, afraid the smallest unexpected movement will cause her to run.

"Calm down." His voice is ragged, rough when he speaks, casting a quick glance around to ensure they truly are alone. "There's no one here."

She drops her gaze to the ground, eyes flickering back and forth as the line of her mouth hardens, as she draws back into herself, and something inside of him aches, _breaks_, at the sight of her, of his strong, fiery, stubborn Savior, unable now to even save herself.

"It's just us." He reaches out, brushes his fingers over her shoulder, and while the tension doesn't leave her body, she sways forward, leaning into him. "You and me."

His hand slips down the ridge of her spine, drawing her closer still, resting his cheek against hers.

"He's inside my head. I can't get him out."

Her words are barely more than a rasp, and they grate at him, scraping over the tender place in his chest where the weight of his love for her rests.

He hears her quick intake of breath, feels her stiffen even further in his arms. "He's here. He's always here."

Her words hinge on a sob, her voice small and frightened in her ear, and he would do _anything_—die a thousand painful deaths, be cursed to live without her for eternity, pay _any _price—to take her pain as his own.

As it is, he clenches his jaw, forcing back the anger rising in his throat—the rage, the _hatred_ for this bloody demon—and turns farther into her, nose skimming against the line of her jaw. His hand finds the ends of her hair, and his fingers tangle in the silky strands, anchoring him, her, _them_.

"Emma." Her name is naught but a breath, the syllables caressing the delicate flesh of her neck, and it isn't until he speaks, isn't until she begins to tremble, clutching at him with desperate fingers, that he knows it's passed, that it truly is just him and her.

Her body rocks forward, pressing up on the tips of her toes as she slips her arms up around his neck. He hears her words, her murmured, broken apologies, feels the warmth of her tears wetting his shirt, and he thinks that he might never have felt quite so helpless in his entire life.

His lips find her temple and the flushed skin there, and his arm settles more firmly around her waist, holding her still-shaking body against his even as he turns them, maneuvering carefully out of the room and back down the hallway.

She doesn't say a word as he leads her back to her bedroom, not even as he presses her back towards the bed, only reacting when he begins to pull away, her fingers tightening around the lapels of his jacket.

"Don't go."

Her eyes are haunted, glassy in the candlelight, and he smiles a small, sad smile as he passes his thumb over the curve of her cheek.

"Don't be daft, Swan," he murmurs as she leans into his touch. "Haven't you figured out by now that I don't plan on going anywhere without you?"

The curve of her lips is a weak, tremulous thing, but it's beautiful—_she_ is beautiful—and it only makes it that much easier for him to lean forward and press his mouth against hers, to kiss her long and deep as his fingers find the laces of her dress.

He eases the stiff bodice down over her hips, grips the satin slip of her chemise as she repays the favor, working her fingers over the fastenings of his vest. Her touch, her lips, her _love_—just _her_—is enough to drive him down into madness, and it's a hell he'd gladly welcome if it only meant she could stay, as well. When she sinks back down onto the bed, pulling him with her, he doesn't hesitate, covering her lithe body with his, settling into the cradle of her thighs. He rests his forehead against the ridge of her shoulder when he finally breaks away, their breath hot and heavy in the space between them, cooling on exposed patches of bare skin. Her fingers trace idly over the lines of his back, dipping and gliding easily over the scars that mar his flesh.

"Emma." He nuzzles into her, pressing another line of kisses down to that place behind her ear, and he knows she doesn't want the words on his tongue, not yet, but he can't help it, can't hold back the sentiment when she's beneath him, around him, consuming him, when he knows they can stave off the demons, if only for a while. "Emma, you are so loved. My beautiful lass. My strong lass. You are so, so loved, darling."

Her fingers tighten around the hair at the nape of his neck, bringing him back up to her lips, and this time, it's more languid, less frenzied.

He kisses her once, twice, a third time before he comes to settle against her breast, tracing a path from elbow to wrist, basking in the way her body responds to him.

He knows she can't sleep, knows it's a vain attempt to ask her to close her eyes, so he doesn't.

"Shall I tell you a story?"

She hums softly, her touch light against his jaw. "Pick your favorite."

He glances up at her, at the face of his Emma, lines smoothed away and smile content, and he grins.

"Once upon a time, there was a princess, born to beloved King and Queen…"

She may well hear the voices, the silky whispers of the darkness, but she'll damn well hear his, too, guiding her patiently back to the light.


	11. someone to watch over me

**someone to watch over me**

_(rated K)_

_fluff and stuff, and Granny's jukebox. takes place in the elusive six weeks post 4a_

* * *

"It's a jukebox."

Her voice startles him – it's a testament to how distracted he's been that he doesn't even hear her approach, doesn't hear the muted tap of her boots echo through Granny's back hallway.

She sidles up next to him, their shoulders brushing, and glances down at the contraption in front of him. He'd been staring at it absently, the bright flashing bulbs and colorful print standing out like a sore thumb against the otherwise muted palate of the establishment.

"A—_juke box_?"

He tries the unfamiliar word on his tongue, rolling the syllables around in his mouth, and he catches a glimpse of her smile out of the corner of his eye.

"Yeah." She shifts, digging a hand down into the pocket of her jeans, and comes up with a small silver coin. "You put money in it—" She holds up the coin, dropping it down into a slot in the machine—"and it plays music."

She leans across, pressing a small button on the side several times before a melody starts to play, slow and sweet.

"See?"

Her smile is a glorious, infectious thing, and he feels the corners of his own lips quirk up in response as she slides into the space in front of him, leaning back against the _jukebox_. Her fingers catch on the zipper of his jacket, the backs of her knuckles brushing against the planes of his stomach, the muscles just beneath tightening in response.

A woman's voice begins to sing, trilling notes that fall in a sad sort of rhythm. Emma hums along, almost unconsciously, and as he listens to words of a serenaded love story, he feels affection of his own bubble up in his chest, warm and pure.

His arm slips low around her waist, hook finding her wrist, and as he tugs her forward gently, she glances up at him from under her lashes, a knowing smirk lighting up her features.

"Why, Captain," she says, voice low and words brushing teasingly against the skin of his neck. He dips his head, reflexively, skimming his nose across the line of her cheek. "Are you dancing with me?"

For all her jest, she falls into step with him naturally, easily, letting him lead her through the simple footwork.

"It's been known to happen before," he returns mildly, grinning when she snorts indelicately into his shoulder. "Just don't tell anyone. Wouldn't want to ruin the reputation."

He feels the curve of her smile in the space just below his jaw, and he gives into temptation, tilts his head just the slightest bit to press his lips against her temple, the ridge of her cheekbone, the corner of her lips. She shifts, hand slipping from his hook to wind around his neck, stepping closer so that now they're no longer dancing, just more or less swaying on the spot.

Her words, when she speaks, are barely more than a whisper. "Your secret's safe with me."

She rocks forward, lips catching his, the kiss soft and slow, almost languid in the way her tongue slides against his, the way her teeth scrape across his bottom lip, and he knows she feels the groan that rumbles up from his chest unbidden, pressed together as close as they are.

She answers with a breath of her own, sharp and uneven when he breaks away long enough to guide her back, back against the faded old wallpaper and the peeling wainscoting. Her touch lights a thrill in his body, fingers clutching on to his waist, digging into the skin over his ribs, and as much as he wishes for a chance to steal her away—to worship her body in the way she deserves, pledge his fealty to her over and over again, in the most intimate of ways—she works the morning shift at the station, and her boy is not more than a hundred meters away, sharing a table and a round of milkshakes with her parents.

Her head falls back against the wall with a muted thud and he follows, resting his forehead against hers, breathing in the air that tastes like cinnamon and chocolate and something vaguely floral—something entirely _Emma_.

It's her turn to groan, though it's more of a whine of protest, and he chuckles as she voices his thoughts.

"It's getting late," she grumbles, carding her fingers through the hair at the base of his neck. It sends a shiver down his spine, and he has to work to keep still, to not roll his body into hers. Her eyelashes flutter open, and he leans back several inches—'tis a dangerous thing to be so close to a woman who wants, he thinks, taking in the pout of her lips and wide-blown pupils of her eyes.

"That it is," he replies, not fighting the urge to trace a finger over the curve of her cheek, following a strand of silken gold back over her ear.

She sighs, straightening up and loosening her hold on the flaps of his coat. Her smile is soft, cheeks still flushed a pretty pink as her hands slide down the length of his torso, finally falling away just above the line of his belt—just above where he wants them the most.

"I'll see you in the morning?"

It comes out as a question, still, after all these weeks, and he can't help but smile, head shaking slightly. "Where else would I be?"


End file.
